Usually
by lilypad234
Summary: AU/Future Fic: Jeff and Annie have been long distance for 2 years. During one of his visits to New York City, they both realize they have some issues to talk about and decisions to make about their future. Inspired by the song "Sunday New York Times".


**Updated Note, 9/3/2013:**

**Hi all - I've been trying to respond to the initial comments in the reviews section, but for some reason I cannot seem to post there. But I did want to take the time to reply to the feedback, so I'm amending the note here.**

**First, thanks to those that left comments. I really, really appreciate it. Early audience reviews seem to indicate that 1) This was maybe, kind of too depressing and 2) This was "generic" and not Jeff-and-Annie enough. The first was more or less intentional. (I guess I'm a downer. Ha.) The second was an oversight on my part. I think I got so wrapped up in the plotline and lyrics that I may have lost sight of the Jeff-and-Annie of it all. **

**Time permitting, I'm probably going to take this down from the site, and tweak it a little to make it less generic, and possibly more uplifting. However, I didn't want to just pull the story without explanation, since that would probably look like I don't like feedback - which is so not the case! Anyway, I'll probably leave this up for a little bit, but ultimately scrap it and put up something hopefully improved.**

**Thanks again for reading and your lovely critiques.**

**-Lily**

**xxxx**

**Disclaimers etc:**

1: Disclaimer: I own nothing related to Community.

2: Warning: Long fic.

3: This story is inspired by the song "Sunday New York Times". It's an amazing, wonderful, completely heartbreaking song, and I recommend you listen to it (or at the very least, read through the lyrics).

xxxxxxx

**Usually**

"It's raining out," she notes softly, staring out the window in her tiny East Village apartment. "It's supposed to all day. Do you have an umbrella?"

"I'll be fine," he murmurs, coming up behind her and rubbing her shoulders. "You worry too much."

"Oh please, three years ago you would have had a meltdown about what the rain would do to your hair or your shirt," she points out, leaning back against him, pulling his arms around her.

"Well, lots of things change in three years," he says. He'd meant it in a lighthearted way, but she says nothing, and so they're left with silence, the unintentional weight of his words settling over both of them.

They stand there for a few moments, her body pressed into his, quiet except for their breathing and the rain splattering against the window sill and the fire escape and, farther down, the layer of brown, wilting leaves coating the sidewalk.

Usually, he likes these moments, these tiny pockets of silence they seem to find and tuck themselves into. Usually, it's comfortable, and he lets down his guard and lets himself just sink back into it, relishing the fact that they've finally hit a point where they don't have to say anything, and that's more than enough. Usually.

And usually, he likes these weekends together, these two day periods where he eases himself into her life in the big city and pretends that he's been there all along. They picnic in the park in the summer, and go to farmers' markets in the fall, sipping cups of cider and perusing the different offerings. They spend too much money and stay out too late, drinking too much and laughing too loudly as they cling to each other and stumble down St. Marks at three in the morning. And it's all been fun and wonderful and perfect, but it's been two years, and he wonders, really, how much longer they can keep this up. Usually, he can push those worries out of his head until he's back at home, and while he's there, focus on how absolutely amazing it is that he gets to be with her, even if only for one or two weekends a month. Usually.

But these past few months, it's felt different. He knows, and he's sure that she knows it, too. And they've danced around the topic, bringing it up in the early, early morning, when the sky is gray and they're curled up in her tiny double bed, still buzzing from the wine and scotch and fighting desperately to stay awake just a few more moments before they drift off to sleep. Usually, it starts with her saying, "I wish you didn't have to leave today" and then he responds with "Me too" and then they remind themselves that it's just for a little while longer, and the fact that they've made it this far means they can make it through anything. And once she graduates and moves back to Colorado, they can be together, like they've been talking about and planning for so long. It will just take a little more patience. And usually, those words are reassuring and comforting enough to lull them back into a place of security, and they fall asleep feeling like together they can conquer anything. Usually.

But lately, that hasn't been enough. He looks around her apartment, at the meticulously organized bookcase, its contents alphabetized, and the black and white images of the city skyline and the Brooklyn Bridge hanging on the walls. He eyes the post-graduation job offer letter from a New York firm on the coffee table, and the photographs of her law school friends framed and perched on end tables and arranged neatly on shelves. She's not moving back, he knows, even if she hasn't told him yet. She's built the beginning of a new life here. If someone were just randomly dropped into her apartment, they would never know that Greendale existed, that she spent four years there, or that at one point, considered her friends there to be her family.

He'd asked her about that once on a recent visit when he noticed that she had gotten rid of her Greendale t-shirts and taken down the picture of all of them at graduation. She looked sheepish at first, denying that it had been intentional – the t-shirts didn't fit anymore, and she must have just moved the picture while cleaning - but eventually, she broke down and explained.

_"It's nothing against Greendale. Or anyone there. Or you – oh God, it has nothing to do with you," she had insisted. "It's just…Greendale was my fresh start from being Annie Adderall. But this is my chance to not be the girl that ended up at Greendale because she was Annie Adderall. Does that make sense? It's my chance to just be a normal person without all the baggage and the detours through rehab and community college. And if I'm going back to Colorado after graduation, I probably won't have the chance to be that person there. So it's just…now or never, I guess. You know what I mean?"_

And he had said yes, because honestly it did make sense and he did know what she meant. But he also knew that it meant that all their early morning, drunkenly whispered plans were getting put on the backburner. At least for now. Maybe forever. She was finally getting to be the person she always had wanted to be. He couldn't compete with that.

The rain falls harder, and his pulse quickens as he thinks about all of this. His breathing is shaky and she notices something is amiss, pulling herself out of his embrace and turning to look at him.

"Are…are you okay?"

He clears his throat. "Yeah, uh. Yeah. Fine," he croaks out hoarsely.

"Do you want something to drink? Water? Tea?"

He takes in a deep breath and shakes his head. "Actually, Annie, maybe we should talk like we said we would last time I was here –"

"Well, I'm making tea," she cuts him off, her heart pounding in her throat, desperate to change the subject that she knows he's going to bring up. "Want any? Your cab shouldn't be here for about 30 minutes, so you'd have plenty of time to drink it."

He looks at her, a mixture of sadness and fear and frustration flickering ever so briefly across his face before he smiles. "I still can't believe you called me a cab," he marvels, forcing cheerfulness into his voice. "You know you can pretty much just take two steps in any direction from your apartment and find one, right?"

His eyes follow her as she glides over to her cramped kitchen area, and reaches up into the cupboard for the tea bags. The bottom of her t-shirt lifts ever so slightly as she does, revealing a thin line of milky skin between it and the waistband of her yoga pants.

"Mmm," she hums, floating over to the sink and filling her pale blue tea kettle with water. "Normally, you're right. But it's a weekend and you need to get to the airport. Didn't want to chance it. You wouldn't want to miss your flight and get stuck here. Work wouldn't like that too much."

_There could be worse things_, he thinks, but all he actually says is, "Right. Yeah. Good call."

"So – tea?" she shakes the half full kettle at him.

"Oh…sure."

She adds more water to the kettle, then sets it on the stove and cranks up the burner. He sits down at her small kitchen table, picking at the folded down corner of a page of the New York Times.

"You can bring that with you, on your flight, if you want," she offers quietly. Her voice is lower now, and he knows that she knows that he knows that…well…they both know.

"Oh, no. That's okay. I wouldn't want to come between you and the crossword puzzle. I know how much you love it," he teases gently.

She smiles tightly and leans back against the countertop. "It's not that big of a deal."

"Oh please, you know you look forward to it all week," he teases again, trying to keep things light. And she does look forward to it. He knows she does. It's part of their tradition – On Sundays, they sleep in. He makes breakfast and she pours over the New York Times crossword puzzle. She never gets more than a third completed, but he loves watching her sit at the kitchen table, coffee mug in hand, glasses on, staring intently at the paper, biting her lip as she navigates the clues.

"Besides," he presses on, "Maybe this is the week you actually solve it all."

She scrunches her nose and sticks her tongue out at him, and he's happy for that moment of levity.

It's short-lived though, and in it's wake, there's only more silence. The kettle whistles and she fixes two cups of tea, handing him one wordlessly. She takes the seat across from him, curling her fingers around her mug and staring into it, as if the secrets of universe were held there.

"Annie," he finally says, reaching across and taking one of her hands in his. It's warm from the heat of the tea cup. "Annie, come on, look at me."

When she looks up, her eyes are rimmed red, and his heart instantly cracks in two. He swallows hard, trying to remember what, exactly, he was going to say.

"We're breaking up, aren't we?" she chokes out, tears slipping down her face. She frees her hand from his and brushes them away.

"Annie…I…I don't know," he stammers, which somehow only makes her cry harder. "Fuck. Annie. Please, just…I mean…I don't _want_ us to break up, but..."

"But we are anyway?" Her voice falls flat at the end. It's more of a statement than a question.

He can feel his pulse in his ear and he's half convinced he's going to pass out right then and there. "No. Yes. I don't…I don't know. I mean, it only makes sense to keep doing this if…Do you really want to move back to Colorado in the spring? Honestly? Leave all of this - " he gestures around the room, but really means more, "—behind to come back and move in with me in Denver?"

She says nothing, but then slowly shakes her head. "N-not really, no," she finally whispers.

Honestly, that's the answer he has been expecting all along, but hearing her agree to it out loud still feels like someone had just sucker punched him in the gut. He feels all the air leave his lungs, though really, he figures that's what he deserves for being the one to initiate this whole conversation.

"Okay then," he says simply, his voice shaking.

"Jeff…I'm sorry…"

"Don't be. It's…it's how you feel."

"But it's not because of you," she adds quickly. "All those times we talked about our plans for after I graduate, I wasn't lying when I said that's what I wanted. At least I don't think I was. I'm just confused – really confused right now. And… I just… you know how much I love you, right?" She's sobbing now, big heaving gasps. He feels his own eyes water, and he tries to hold back, because Jeff Winger doesn't cry, ever. But he fails at that, like he's failed at so, so much recently, it seems, and he feels his own warm, salty tears slide down his face.

She buries her face in her palms, and all he can do is reach over and pull her out of the tiny, wobbly kitchen chair and onto his lap and into his arms. She wraps her arms around his shoulders, burrowing her face in the crook of his neck. He rubs her back and breathes in her scent and realizes that this, Jesus Christ _this_ might be the last time they're ever this close together and she's weeping and he's simultaneously feeling like the worst person in the world and like someone just ripped his fucking heart right out his chest.

They sit like that for a while, saying nothing. He holds her tight, and kisses her temple, and secretly wishes he hadn't taken so long to fall in love with her in the first place. All those years, she was right there at Greendale and he…well, it didn't really matter now, did it?

"I-I'm sorry," she finally stammers out, after what feels like an eternity of silence. She lifts her head and looks at him. "I really thought that when I came out here, it would be fine and fun for 3 years and then I could just go back, but…I just finally feel like I am where I'm supposed to be, you know?"

He nods silently.

"I guess I should have brought this up a while ago," she admits. She stands up and moves back to her seat across from him, and he feels a stabbing pain in his heart, followed by the overwhelming fear that he'll never be able to hold her again. "I just…You've been so good for two years. _We've_ been so good for two years. I just thought that maybe something would change this year and I'd want to move back, but then I got this job offer for after I graduate, and it's a really great opportunity that I feel like I should take – no, that I _want_ to take. For the first time in my life, I have the chance to do something that I really want to do, because _I want _to do it. Not because I think I _should_ do it or because someone else thinks I should, and I don't want to give that up…" She trails off.

"And I'm not going to ask you to give that up, Annie. You know I wouldn't do that," he says quietly.

"Right. Of course you wouldn't. I know that," she licks her lips nervously. "But then there's us. And I didn't want to give that up, either."

_Didn't_ _want to give that up_, he focuses on. _Didn't._ Past tense. The corollary to that being, _But I'm going to, anyway. _

"And then I thought that you could maybe move out here," she adds timidly. "But then, I think about all the time and money and effort you've put into building your firm out in Denver, and I can't ask you to give that up, either."

He nods again. She's right, and he knows it. He's put his blood, sweat, tears, and good chunk of his remaining savings into starting his firm, and it's finally starting to take off. Plus, that minor blip on his record – that whole falsifying a degree thing – would make it nearly impossible to get on with any major firm in New York. He knows that. She knows that, too; She's just too nice to point it out.

"So, that just leaves us…here," he says lamely.

"Yeah."

"Okay then." He sighs. "So, what do you think we should….I mean, is this…Should we…" He searches for the right words. "Where do we go from here?"

She chews on her lower lip nervously, and fidgets with the necklace she's wearing, the one he gave her a little over a year ago after she finished her first year of law school. "I…I guess you go back to Denver," she finally manages. "And I stay here."

The words hang heavy between them.

"Unless…unless you have a better idea in mind?" she offers up, hopefully.

He doesn't. There isn't one, he realizes. Unless they want to keep playing pretend every other weekend until…until what? Until he starts resenting the travel or she finds someone else in New York, he supposes, which doesn't seem like it would be better. Not in the long run.

Outside, the taxi horn honks. A sign from some higher power, he presumes.

"I, uh, think that's the cab," he says, rising slowly from his seat. "I should get going." He walks out to the living room, puts on his coat, and picks up his bag. She follows him somberly. It feels funereal, and in a way, he supposes it is.

"So um, maybe…maybe you could still visit, every once in a while. I mean not….not right away, I guess, but…eventually," she suggests, biting her thumbnail nervously. "Just because we're not…you know, together, doesn't mean you have to be a stranger."

He nods, probably too enthusiastically. "Yeah, yeah…I will definitely try. And you'll still be back in Colorado on over breaks, right?"

"Oh, of course. Yeah. We can see each other then, too, for sure."

"Sounds good," he smiles tightly. "Oh –" he reaches into his coat pocket, producing a set of keys. "You'll probably want to have these back."

She clasps them in her palm, the Snoopy keychain peeking out of the top of her fist. She remembered how much he'd teased her about the keychain when she'd first given him the keys, and how she'd guilted him into keeping it on there. "Oh, yeah. Thanks. I would have totally forgotten." She lets out a forced laugh.

The taxi honks again.

"I should really get going," he says hurriedly.

"Oh, I can walk you down to the car," she says, picking up her bright pink umbrella. He starts to protest, but she cuts him off. "Please, it's pouring outside. I insist. And besides it's….you might not be making another New York trip for a while. At least let me say good-bye properly."

He relents, and she follows him down the narrow stairwell, out the front door, and onto the sidewalk. They huddle underneath the umbrella as the cab driver maneuvers Jeff's luggage into the trunk.

"We're going to be okay, right? As friends, I mean," she asks nervously, peering up at him. "I mean, you're not going to get all weird and ignore me like you did with all your other ex-girlfriends, are you?"

"Only for the first year," he replies, and she elbows him lightly in the ribs. "No," he says more seriously. "We'll be okay." He hugs her reassuringly, then opens the cab door and slides into the backseat.

"Who knows -Maybe some year, we'll even get our timing right," he adds before shutting the door.

She smiles sadly at him. He feels his chest tighten as he waves good-bye and mouths "I love you" to her through the window. He turns and gazes back at her as the taxi pulls away, until she's nothing more than a bright pink speck against a gray background, and then gone altogether.

He spends the rest of the ride bargaining with the universe. If they hit traffic, if they somehow get delayed and he misses his flight, he'll take it is a sign that he fucked up back there, that he should stay in New York. He'll sell his condo and quit his job and move here and fight every damn day to make it work, no questions asked.

He makes it to JFK in record time.


End file.
